Free The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles by Katherine Pancol

her nose.
    “It’s my mother. I just found out that she died.”
    “That’s sad, of course, but we all lose our parents sooner or later. You have to be prepared for it.”
    Henriette had never liked Josiane. Didn’t like her insolence, her catlike walk, her blond hair, and especially not her eyes. Those eyes! Bright, lively, and challenging one minute, deep and seductive the next. She had more than once asked Marcel to fire her, but he always refused.
    “Is my husband here?”
    “He’s upstairs, but he’ll be back. You can wait in his office.”
    “I would watch my manners, girl,” said Henriette with vicious condescension. “Don’t you use that tone with me.”
    “And don’t you call me ‘girl.’ I’m Josiane Lambert, not your girl.”
    Henriette marched into Marcel’s office and slammed the door. Josiane allowed herself a smile of satisfaction.
    She phoned her brother to find out when the funeral would be.
Could old lady Grobz really get me fired?
Josiane wondered while the phone was ringing. Maybe she could.
    Overcome by a sudden wave of sentimentality, she told her brother she would come home for the funeral.
    “Mom asked to be cremated,” her brother said.
    “Really? Why?”
    “She was afraid of waking up in the dark.”
    “I can understand that.”
    My little mother
, she thought,
afraid of waking up in the dark!
She suddenly felt a twinge of love for her mother, and started to cry again. She hung up, blew her nose . . . and felt a hand on her shoulder.
    “Something wrong, sweetie-pie?”
    “It’s my mom, Marcel. She died.”
    “Come here.”
    Marcel took her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap.
    “Put your arms around my neck and let yourself go, like you’re my baby. I’ve always wanted a baby, you know. But Henriette always said no.”
    “Well, she’s in your office, waiting for you.”
    Marcel leaped up as if someone had jabbed him in the behind with a rusty nail.
    “
What?
Are you sure?”
    “Of course I’m sure. We got into an argument.”
    He rubbed his head, looking chagrined.
    “Oh boy! And I need her signature on some papers! You know that crappy Murepain subsidiary? Well, I managed to palm it off on the Brits. Sweetie-pie, couldn’t you have chosen another day to pick a fight with her? What am I gonna do now?”
    “She’s going to ask for my scalp.”
    “Was it that bad?”
    “Christ, Marcel! Does she really scare you that much?”
    He smiled sadly.
    “I’d better go see what she wants.”
    “Yeah, go see what she’s doing all alone in your office.”
    “Don’t be mad at me, honeybunch.”
    “Just go.”
    Josiane knew all about men and their courage. She didn’t expect Marcel to go to war with the Toothpick for her. She didn’t expect anything from him. Maybe some sweetness, some tenderness when they were in bed. He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed giving him the pleasure he’d been denied, because whenyou’re in love, giving is as good as getting. She loved climbing on top to take him between her thighs, make him practically faint with pleasure.
    Josiane stood up, and decided to get some coffee and collect her thoughts. She gave a last worried glance at Marcel’s office. What was going on in there? Was he going to knuckle under and sacrifice her on the altar of King Cash? That’s what her mother used to call money.
    Here I am pretending to be a liberated woman, when I’ve actually spent my whole life enslaved to King Cash! It paid for my cherry, and it bought and sold me. Yet the moment I see a rich man, I look up to him like he’s a superior being, like he’s God’s gift to mankind.
    Still angry at herself, Josiane smoothed her dress and went to the break room to buy a coffee from the vending machine. The plastic cup dropped, and she waited as it filled with hot, black liquid. She squeezed the cup in both hands, savoring its warmth.
    “What are you doing tonight? Hanging out with the old man?” asked Bruno Chaval, tapping a cigarette on his